8 Ways to Say I Love You
by nonsequitur1416
Summary: Words have the tendency to become superfluous, and the fact that she isn't exactly the paragon of eloquence doesn't exactly help. But when she takes her chances, she finds she has her moments. Eight times Naomi finds the courage to give in. Eight times Emily forgets to breathe. UPDATED! CHAPTER THREE!
1. Serendipity and Page Breaks

**A/N: A four-shot inspired by my insensate board revisions; a weekend down at Battersea; a visit to my Gran's at Clapham; fellow author, Osito_Panda; a Tumblr and Twitter prompt by fellow author, TheLittleRipper; a brief, toxic love affair; an entire bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut; and, most importantly—**

**R. McKinley's contemporary masterpiece: '8 Ways to Say I Love You.' If you haven't read this yet, there is a portion of your soul that has yet to be filled. It is arguably the most beautiful thing I've ever read. It's on ThoughtCatalog! Go there **_**now. **_**Yes. **_**Yes.**_

**Also, I absolutely love the song, 'Police Report' by the VelcroBrothers; its brevity speaks volumes, yeah? Listen to it ;)**

* * *

**Peripeteia**

**1. Spit it into her voicemail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night's clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it.**

* * *

Emily stumbles into the living room; fingers splayed, blindly groping the wall in hopes of miraculously flicking the light switch on. She grins a little when she succeeds, a giggle bubbling up her throat when she realizes Katie's already passed out on the couch. She realizes _she's _got nowhere to collapse on, a beat later, and her lips curl downward instead—she laughs again, a little louder this time, when she feels her facial muscles tauten into a frown.

In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't one of her finest ideas: getting shit-faced with Katie's new boyfriend and her string of cronies—_they were never _her _friends, not really; they're all Katie's and she's okay with it, really—_and on a school night to boot. She's sure she's had better ideas, ones that don't involve incurring massive, skull-shattering hangover-induced migraines in the morning.

But the evening had been worth it though; she feels her cheeks grow warm at the thought. True, _they_ hadn't exactly shared a halfway decent conversation, never making it past the pleasantries and hesitant greetings before the air around them coalesced into palpable tension; and _yes_, maybe they didn't exactly _have _eye-contact; and okay, maybe, just _maybe _she spent the entire night avoiding her despite the fact that Emily made a conscious effort to keep her in sight at all times.

_But, _Emily thought cheerily, _we definitely held hands for a bit, there. And she definitely looked at me. For a bit. _

She grips the back of the couch for support and kicks off her heels, watching amusedly as they fly across the room in short, parabolic arcs before hitting the wall opposite with a heavy thud. She grimaces as she curls her toes; without a doubt there'll be blisters on her feet again by tomorrow morning. Katie sleeps like the dead on nights like these, oblivious to the fact that her mouth is wide open and her drool drips onto the throw pillow. If Emily had so chosen, she could've easily taken her sister down a peg or two: it would be far too easy to snap a photo and make it viral on the Internet.

She's sorely tempted, but she doesn't do it. Partly because she's too busy trying to ignore the growing ache throbbing at the base of her skull. Katie turns over, rolls onto her back and mumbles in her sleep. It sounds—suspiciously enough—like, 'Ems.' Emily turns back and glances at her sister. Katie's cracked open an eye and tries, futilely, to prop herself up on an elbow to speak to her. She fails however, and falls back onto the cushions, groaning loudly.

"Fucking _shit,_" she hisses through clenched teeth, fingertips pressing deeply against her temples. "_Fuck_. Ems, mum called me an hour ago. Completely forgot about it. They've arrived at Gran's in Glasgow; she says you should call her. She's got something important to say. Fuck knows what it is though."

Katie's slurring so badly, it's a miracle Emily understands her at all. But she does, and nods mutely in lieu of a proper reply. She doesn't trust herself to speak either. Katie lolls back onto the couch and curls her legs towards her body, snuggling into the cushions. "Don't wait up for James, yeah?" she mutters sleepily. "He's staying at his little wanker-friend's place tonight. Greg, George, Godwin—_Christ, _what's the bloody knob's name again?"

"Gordon," Emily croaks. She's fairly sure it's Gordon. "Gordon McPherson."

"Whatever," Katie waves a dismissive hand and rolls over, pressing her forehead against the back of the couch. "Call mum before you go to bed, or she'll have my fucking head, bitch." It's the last thing Katie says for awhile; Emily murmurs back a, 'Good night,' simply because it's Katie's way of saying so. It's been years since they've said something so familial, so domestic, to each other.

Emily staggers into the kitchen, swaying on her feet unsteadily. She pauses beside the phone for a bit, hands clutching the edge of the countertop so tightly, her knuckles turn white. She wills the world to stop spinning, for the twin-phones before her to blur back into one. It takes a while, but soon, the world is right-side up again. She takes a breath and presses the button on the machine, waiting for the inevitable _beep _after the click, indicating a message. It blinks twice—_two fucking messages, _she sighs tiredly—and she sags against the counter, head on her hands, not entirely pleased at the prospect of listening to her mother's voice before bed.

_"Emily!" _her mother's voice is laced with ill-disguised excitement; she can't repress the shiver that runs down her spine when she remembers the reason why they decided to fly back to Glasgow in the first place: a romantic getaway sans honeymoon. _Fucking _anniversaries.

She listens to a full four-and-a-half-minutes worth of senseless prattle about the joys of country living, her father's accidental discovery of a whiskey distillery beside a cemetery, and the horribly, depressingly, tragic tale of an old biddy who died yesterday.

"_She was only sixty-four, love! What _is _an aneurism anyway?"_

She nearly falls asleep—she nods at her mother's words blearily, briefly forgetting she can't be seen anyway. Her mother concludes the message with a sermon: she needs the bills paid by tomorrow morning, and _no, _Katie can't be bothered to do them because she's having a spa day. Her mother mumbles a breathless _I love you _before hastily hanging upand she _doesn't _want to think about why her mother would have any reason to be breathless at all, even if she _is _on her fucking annual anniversary trip.

She's so sleepy she's tempted to unplug the machine to stop it from doling _another _message, but it blinks and _beeps _before she lifts a finger to do so. She sighs heavily and runs a palm down her cheek slowly, relishing the feel of her own skin.

_"Emily!" _

She freezes and jolts to full awareness. She knows that voice; would recognize it, even if she was held at gunpoint and asked to listen to a muffled recording of it back-masked. Her breath catches in her throat, her pulse thunders hard under the skin of her neck. She suddenly feels hot all of a sudden; the buzz is better than alcohol.

_"Emily! Hi. You got a moment? 'Course you do. You're fucking listening to me right now, aren't you? So, don't stop."_

She had no intention of doing so, whatsoever.

_"Listen—"_

She is. Oh_, she is._

_"You know how Monica Anwhistle brought vodka to Jonathan—" _Emily can hear the hesitation in her voice, can see her brows creased together in thought, can imagine her frustration as she struggles to remember an elusive memory. _"—Jonathan Har—Jonathan Grif—Jonathan Isr—Oh, Jesus, fuck it. Jonathan's housewarming party, three years back? We played spin-the-bottle in the basement, d'you remember?"_

She laughs quite suddenly, because she _does _remember. Katie lost a thong that night, and she had to sacrifice her favorite cardigan to salvage whatever was left of her sister's dignity.

_"We were halfway through the game when it landed on you. Oliver fucking Davies' turn, then. D'you remember?"_

She does. She closes her eyes briefly to bring the memory closer, however unpleasant it was. She remembers what it felt like—the right pressure, wrong pair of lips.

_"He was so fucking ecstatic. Perverted bastard had a fucking twin fetish; dream come true, the wanker. I thought you'd say no—" _there's scrambling on the other end of the line, a sort of shuffling. Silence for a few seconds, and then, _"—D'you know I looked for him after the party? I fucking did! Hunted the tosser down, y'know? Found him groping Monica in the upstairs toilet, his hand shoved up her skirt. I smashed a bottle of cooler on his head, can't remember a time I ever got that fucking mad again. Because you deserve better, you know? Emily, you fucking deserve better. So much better."_

She draws the machine a little closer and leans down. Leans down until her nose touches the cold plastic. She closes her eyes.

_"Ems—"_ someone grabs the phone from the other end and starts garbling into it. Somebody laughs, the bass from the music thumping heavily in the background. A few seconds later, the slurring resumes.

_"—Christ! Oh, shit. SHIT. Um, wait—FUCK! Oh. OH. Okay. There. Emily?" _Emily nods softly, her nose sliding against the plastic. _"Ems?" _a little softer than before. Emily's heart starts beating a frenetic rhythm.

_"Ems, I don't know why I was so fucking mad at him that night!" _Laughter on the other end, loud and long and clear—and adorable, she thinks briefly. _"But you'd be mad too, right? If a complete, top-shelf tosser started dissing like a fucking bastard? Jesus, please. Monica fucking Anwhistle to Emily Fitch—there's no bloody contest, is there?"_

Emily's heart stills, and it sinks. Lower, and lower, and lower, until she feels it settling at the bottom of her gut. It hurts: her insecurities resurface. Monica Anwhistle was drop-dead gorgeous. There really was no fucking contest. She'd won, hands down. College muse in her sophomore year; stuff of fucking legends.

_"She's a stereotypical cliché, Emily. Oliver Davies is a complete _knob. _A total dicksplash. You're perfect. Monica Anwhistle can't hold a fucking candle to you. She's hot, I'll grant you that. But you're beautiful." _Emily screws her eyes shut and tries to focus on breathing properly.

"_Why he'd want to be with anyone else is beyond me. But then, that's an idiot for you, really." _Emily leans closer, the voice is softer now. Gentler. More intimate. She imagines _her_ pushing her way past people, staggering past the club's double doors to collapse against the brick wall outside.

"_You want to know why I got so fucking mad that night, Ems? You want to know why I've hated him all these years?"_

There's silence on the other end. It stretches uncomfortably long. Emily can still hear breathing, though. A few seconds later, she hears the tell-tale slosh of liquid slapping the insides of a glass bottle—_vodka_, she thinks bemusedly. She imagines the bottle tipping back, the liquid searing down _her _throat, the phone dangling limply at her side, temporarily forgotten.

"_Because _I _fucking wanted—"_

A sigh. She feels it with every fiber of being, and she sighs inaudibly back.

"—_To kiss _you."

There it is. Emily's eyes fly open, and she staggers back in shock. She picks the machine up and stares at it, incredulous. Her heart's pounding so hard in her chest, she's rendered breathless. There is no room for coherent thought; there is only the inexplicable bliss of that simple admission.

It is enough.

But, _she's _not yet finished, not quite. Emily knows this, because soon, she hears sniffling on the other end. _She's crying, _she realizes with a start. She lays the machine back on the counter and grips the edge of the granite with trembling fingers.

"—_I'm sorry. I just—Ems, I—Fuck. _Fuck. _Emily—"_

The message crackles with static and noise. She can imagine _her _tipping her head back against the wall, tears streaming down her face, the phone clutched tight in a hand numb with cold. Emily can hear footsteps and a loud crack; the phone slips from her fingers, she thinks. There are voices, _raised _voices and then the phone is most likely picked up again, but the static is so thick, Emily can only hear bits and pieces of her sentences.

Fragments.

_"—There is so—I can't really say—Emily, you know I do—But, I can't—So many fucking—You can't ask it of—There's only—A lot then, you—You're—And you know—But I—Shit, then, if I can't, but it's fucking true, believe me—"_

_ "I love you."_

The message ends there, and the machine blinks again. Emily stares hard at it, immobile and silent. She lifts a finger to scratch at a spot on her chin and feels wetness instead—she realizes she's crying. She doesn't like it, though. Not really.

She ducks down swiftly and unplugs the machine from the wall. She winds the cord in her fist tightly and steps outside the kitchen door, and onto the front drive. She drops the machine, phone, cord and all, into the trash and slams the lid down harshly. Emily collapses against it a moment later and begins to cry, great heaving sobs. She crams a fist into her mouth to stifle the sound, careful not to wake Katie.

She's endured nearly everything Naomi's thrown her way—scathing looks and brash remarks, sarcastic quips and biting comments. And those eyes. Those infinitely cold eyes. She's sorry she ever thought they could ever hold anything else other than contempt for her. She chastises herself for being so delusional.

But of all the things she's put up with, this is one thing she won't take.

Because believing would be foolishness; because hoping would be masochistic and cruel. Infinitely cruel. And if it was a lie—

Emily takes a deep, shuddering breath and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, hard. Not tonight, she thinks. Not tonight.

Tomorrow, she'll have to think of a plausible alibi to explain the sudden absence of the phone, and the landline cord to boot. She digs the heel of her palms against her temples to stem the painful throbbing behind her ears.

That is, if she remembers tonight at all.

* * *

**Caesura**

**2. Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don't even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy.**

* * *

_In times like these, Naomi forgets to breathe—forgets that the simple act of forcing air into her lungs is a homeostatic obligation of the body, an inexorable function of her visceral organs, and not an oppressive conspiratorial bid to deny her the pleasures of the moment; _this_ moment, with Emily. _

She can never say what it is, really, even when Cook presses her for vivid details in the middle of the night, a half-empty bottle of gin between them and a brow raised suggestively at her, because she doesn't understand it either. She can never bring herself to fully explain the why's-and-wherefores of loving Emily Fitch, and the sheer, inexplicable breathlessness that consumes her when she _looks_ at her, can't understand why she evolves into a stuttering mute at the mere mention of the latter.

Cook finds her perplexity endearing—and humorous—at the same time. It irritates her. "Look 'ere," he stage-whispers conspiratorially. "Sometimes you don't need words, yeah? Sometimes they get in the way. Make you look like a downright presumptuous prick, and no one really likes a fucker. She's got your knickers in a twist, let's leave it at that." He lifts the bottle to his lips and swallows an entire mouthful.

He grimaces and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "What do I say, then?" she very nearly snarls; she's not feeling so good tonight, and the alcohol's beginning to sear through her veins. It's doing nothing to help her temper. Cook glances at her amusedly, "Nothing. She _knows, _princess. She's a smart one, your bird."

She freezes then, and pales. Cook drinks another mouthful, pretends not to notice.

* * *

_She realizes then, that she lives for moments like these. Emily sighs into her mouth, fingers threading tightly through her hair. She lets her forehead rest on the cool skin of Emily's shoulder and presses a kiss there. Emily begins to say something, her voice soft and insistent, but she can't quite hear properly. _

_ Who can hear anything over the pounding of their heart, really?_

_ "Fuck!" _she cries, throwing the textbook across the room. It hits the dresser with a dull _thunk_ and flutters open, the spine cracking to accommodate the odd asymmetry of an open book, glossy pages folded and creased. A warm breeze blows through the open window and rustles the pages feebly. She bites back another irritated curse and settles for a scowl.

Sociology and politics was one thing, economics—on the other hand—was another. She can't understand what equilibrium has to do with anything, why the demand and supply curves needed to _meet _at a coincidental point in the graph to verify the schedule. She rips another page off her notebook and starts scribbling again with renewed vigor. _Fucking _floor price, she thinks.

_The government acts as the consumer to purchase the surplus; in contrast, the price ceiling serves another function, in that the government becomes the supplier—_

She crumples it tightly in her fist and throws it across the room, feeling a little pleased with her aim when it lands next to the textbook. She runs a hand through her hair, de-tangling snarls along the way. Quite suddenly, she finds herself craving a cigarette. She jumps off the bed and pulls open the top drawer of her bedside table; she fumbles about for a bit until her fingers find a tin case. She shakes it out on the bed and frowns when all it contains is a single rolled spliff.

_Still, it's something, _she thinks gratingly. She places it between her lips carefully and flicks her thumb over the lighter's ignition. She takes a deep, satisfied pull on it and collapses backward on the bed.

_That's more fucking like it._

* * *

Emily finds her an hour later, completely stoned, the spliff dangling from a corner of her mouth. They stare at each other unblinkingly until Naomi cracks a deliciously languorous smile and stretches out a hand towards her in invitation. Emily smiles back slowly, hesitantly, and twines their fingers. Naomi grins lopsidedly and tugs on her hand until she stumbles forward and lands on her knees on the mattress. She kicks off her flats and shrugs off her parka, letting it drop to the floor. Naomi scoots over and pulls, rearranges herself until Emily's settled against her comfortably, her head tucked into the crook of her neck, an arm wrapped tightly about her waist.

"You promised you'd lay off until exams were done." She doesn't miss the disappointment lacing Emily's tone and sighs, theatrically. "Hopeless case, Ems. I've been making graphs all day—they just don't fucking fit. Can't fucking understand."

They're quiet for awhile, relishing the sound of each other's breathing. Naomi puffs little smoke rings, takes care not to blow down directly into Emily's face. "Right, then," Emily says decidedly and sits up. She takes the spliff from Naomi and takes a pull before stubbing it out against the headboard.

"Up you get," she grins, pulling Naomi to her feet. Naomi looks at her nonplussed, "What the fuck, Emily?" She watches as her lover saunters across the room and retrieves the fallen textbook, mouth falling open in horror when she sees the page Emily's dog-eared for convenience.

"You can't be _fucking _serious."

"No one in the world can teach you better, and you know it."

* * *

Three hours later, Naomi can distinguish the difference in surplus-shortage supply curves. She's overtly pleased with herself for finally understanding, but she's even prouder of Emily who sat across from her on the carpet for a solid three hours, drawing graph after graph until she could grasp the importance of labeling the miniscule dots E1 and 2 with confident finality.

She knows she should be listening _(she already feels guilty for taking her eyes off the notebook, but even so), _but she's given Emily her undivided attention for _three straight hours, _and she can't find it in herself to _not _look at something infinitely more interesting.

Her mouth falls open a little when she chances a glance: Emily's taken to worrying her lower lip between her teeth, her brows furrowed in concentration. Her cheeks are flushed a warm pink, and her fingers proceed to dismantle the double-ended highlighter, from cap to ink-capsule. She doesn't appear to notice when the capsule bursts and spills bright neon orange all over her palms; she chooses, at that inappropriate moment, to scratch along her brow. Naomi watches wide-eyed as her hands leave bright neon streaks across her forehead.

She chokes back a laugh, and fails.

Emily breaks free from her reverie and glances up at her curiously; Naomi notes the stark contrast in colors _(the highlighter and the red of her hair. Fucking _hilarious) and bursts into laughter. She collapses into a hysterical fit of giggles, and Emily finds her frown deepening by the minute.

"You still taking the piss, Naoms?" she asks, a little testily. Naomi struggles to speak, splutters instead. _"Ems—Oh, Ems—!" _she jabs a finger at her forehead and laughs even harder. Emily swipes the back of her hand along her brow and glances, incredulous, at the stain she finds there. The orange spreads instead, staining her _other _brow as well. Naomi heaves herself upright again and stares at her instead.

Emily sighs a while later, "I've made it a whole lot worse, I think. I can _feel _it. It's beginning to itch. Shit." She reaches up to soothe the uncomfortable pricking, but Naomi's fingers wrap around her wrist.

"No," Naomi whispers, awed. "You're beautiful, Ems." And she is. Christ, she really is. Emily peers at her through her curtain of hair and smiles shyly. They meet halfway—

Naomi kisses her gently, hands coming up to tangle in her hair, bringing her closer. Emily presses against her harder, desperate for contact, nearly climbing into her lap in her eagerness. Very carefully, she traces along Naomi's bottom lip with a tongue. Naomi pulls back a bit and kisses her harder, mouth opening against hers. She feels hands slipping under her top, sliding across her stomach, up her ribs, nails scratching against her back. She shudders, breathless. Without warning, she wraps her arms about Emily's thighs and lifts her. Emily squeaks in surprise and laughs as Naomi struggles to get to her feet.

It is the longest six seconds of her life, but she manages to get Emily onto the bed.

She realizes the effort is worth it.

* * *

She presses her lips to Emily's frantically, effectively silencing her screams. She swallows the sound and screws her eyes tightly: Emily's nails are scratching long furrows against her back, and it is, indubitably, painful. But, this is the moment she lives for—and so she pulls back and watches. She curls her arm around Emily's waist and waits until she finally stops arching off the bed before lowering her gently onto the sheets. Her hair fans out like fire against the pillows, and her eyes are half-lidded in tearful ecstasy.

She's never seen anything more beautiful. She leans back down and kisses her, open-mouthed, but gently. Emily smiles into the kiss, and—

_"Jesus! Oh, fuck—"_ she feels her walls tighten around Emily's fingers, and, and, and, _and—"Emily! Oh, oh, Christ, Ems."_

She comes so hard she sees stars, her shoulder nicking Emily's lip. She tries to apologize, but all coherent thought leaves her. Emily pulls her down for a kiss and she feels tears prick her eyes.

It slips down her cheeks and into the corners of her lips when she whispers an honest confession into Emily's mouth.

_"I love you. Jesus, I fucking love you." _

Emily pulls back and presses her forehead against hers, gently running the tip of her nose along her jaw and back. "Yeah?" she chuckles softly, nipping the skin at the base of her throat.

Naomi represses a shudder, tries—and fails—to stop herself from being aroused, _again. _"Yeah," she whispers, tangling their fingers together. "I kind of fucking adore you. Crazy, really. God knows why." Emily laughs, really laughs, and pulls her tighter, closer.

"Because I am irrefutably perfect, obviously."

Naomi rolls her eyes and lets it slide, settles instead for pressing her face against Emily's warm neck and smiles. She _knows_ its true, but still:

"Whatever."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you, TheLittleRipper, for the personal prompt. I'm really enjoying this. Hope you all are too! **

**Leave me a little something? I'll love you if you do, you know. ;) **

**- Guppy**


	2. Chekov's Gun Theory (Piglets & Benches)

**I owe you all my sincerest apologies: I promised swift, frequent updates and had nil to deliver in the past month alone. So much happened over the past few months—what with my required post-proper excursions to various cities. (I flew to Melbourne a couple of weeks back and stumbled upon—of all people—TheLittleRipper! Well, not exactly stumbled, since we'd been in correspondence ever since, but, you get the picture. Serendipitous coincidences are wonderful; she bought me a drink and asked about this particular fic's progress. Therefore, this update should be credited to her and her exceptional reproaches.)**

**Also, I have a lady who—perfunctorily, it must be said— occupies, constantly, the forefront of my thoughts. Anyway, my birthday's in a couple of days, so let this be my gift to you, for now. Rest assured, now that I have infinite time in my hands (for the time being, that is), I'll be updating as quickly as my fingers can type.**

**While I'm at it, a little shameless plugging: if you haven't already, or you're new to the fandom (Welcome, love!), make it a point to read Smoke, Steel and Salt by AssassinsLover, and Resting on Your Laurels by scriptmanip!**

**Anyway, enjoy, this—er—extremely belated Valentines greeting. Pure, unadulterated fluff.**

**Also, smexy smut.**

**Now that I have your attention; carry on, loves!**

* * *

**Chekov's Gun Theory**

3. Buy her flowers. Buy her chocolate. Buy her a teddy bear, because that's what every romantic comedy has taught you. Take her out to a nice restaurant where neither of you feel comfortable and spend the whole night clearing your throat and tugging at your tie. Feel like your actions are more suited to a proposal than the simple confession of something you've always known.

* * *

She knows better than to ask you about tomorrow; about possible plans, meals or otherwise. Gifts aren't even a viable option for discussion. You don't do clichés. She knows you don't; respects you for it, loves you despite the fact that she adores the occasion.

You don't do clichés. Then again, before her, you thought you couldn't do a shit-load of things either. Girls, for instance. You frown at the thought and dig the heel of your palms a little harder into the skin at your brow. The thing is—you try, try to concentrate on a single train of thought, but the panic rising in your chest makes it difficult. Oh, so difficult.—She adores the occasion, but suppresses the excitement and the longing in her voice whenever it comes up in a conversation with you, simply because she knows you don't enjoy it nearly half as much. She knows better than to ask you to try and celebrate it with her once, just this once. And it's the fact that she hesitates to ask you at all that makes you wonder whether or not your previous views on such a useless occasion aren't as pagan as you've made them out to be. You throw yourself back onto the bed and twist further into the sheets, half believing that if you bury yourself deep enough, she won't be able to find you in time to unconsciously coerce you into doing something so out-of-character for you.

It frustrates you to no end, this one day fashioned by the Roman Catholic Church and appropriated by misanthropic greeting-card companies. If it didn't exist, you wouldn't have anything to worry about today.

You groan.

* * *

She's already downstairs, sitting on a stool at the far-end of the kitchen counter, gesturing wildly with a triangle of toast. She's got her back to you while your mother—who's already seen you lingering by the staircase but chooses not to address you at her discretion, bless her—continues to engage her in a conversation that's altogether too loud and light at six-thirty in the morning. She throws her head back and laughs, long and hard, despite the fact that she's got a mouthful of food: you find it completely adorable.

You watch as your mother freezes for a second, astounded by her sudden outburst of mirth, before joining her in laughter as well. She holds out another triangle of toast to your mother who promptly scoops out a healthy amount of marmite from an indistinct glass jar and spreads it across the surface before handing it back.

She says a soft 'thank you,' before demolishing the thing off in two bites. The sheer domesticity of the moment unfolding before you is beautiful. You think briefly, 'I could get used to this,' and your throat suddenly refuses to cooperate; peristalsis is temporarily impeded, and you find yourself unable to swallow.

You clear your throat, trying to be as discreet about it as possible to preserve the moment, but they hear you anyway. She turns in her seat, and catches your eye. The smile that spills across her face takes your breath away, and you find yourself stumbling to her, your feet suddenly deciding they'd like to impersonate lead blocks for the time being. You pause for a second before her, taking her in, before leaning down to hold her in your arms. She sighs against your neck as your hands slide across her back, your arms wrapping about her waist until she curves naturally into you. She turns her head and kisses the skin of your throat; you feel her lashes flutter, and you know she's closed her eyes.

"Good morning," she whispers, her voice impossibly rough. She pulls back and kisses you properly, and suddenly you feel self-conscious because you have yet to brush your teeth. She's got no qualms about the matter though, because soon she sighs against your lips and slips her tongue into your mouth. It's only when she licks your teeth and her hands have wandered underneath your top to touch the skin of your back that you realize your mother is still somewhere in the vicinity, and that taking Emily against the kitchen counter would probably be inadvisable. You loved her, yes, but you weren't ready for that level of PDA just yet.

So, you pull back regretfully and readjust her arms about your own waist—there, you think. General Patronage. You chance a glance at your mother who appraises you with a raised brow; she looks mightily amused, like she still can't find it in herself to believe that Emily—dear, sweet, innocent, Emily—can be a feisty, wanting whirlwind of ill-suppressed passion. You smile at her, then. She laughs at the expression on your face and the tension is broken.

"Morning, mum," you say brightly. She shakes her head amusedly, and responds with pursed lips.

"Morning love. Have a start on breakfast, yeah? 'Fraid Emsy's gone and finished all the toast though, so help yourself to cereal instead." She bustles about the kitchen, clearing dishes and running water in the sink. "I'll leave you both to it, then. Oh, and Emsy?" Emily looks up and swivels around in her seat to catch the twinkle in your mother's eye. "Happy Valentines, darling. Wish the cynic of the century beside you a cheery 'Non-existent-holiday-of-the-month-as-patronized-b y-greeting-card-companies Day' for me, won't you?" Emily laughs and says she will. Your mother nods in approval and brushes past you, but not before kissing the top of your head.

You turn back to her and raise a brow, "All the toast. Fuck, Ems . You're such a selfish cow; I'm a growing woman with needs too."

She blushes a pale pink and punches your arm daintily, "You should wake up earlier, then!"

"Sorry, someone kept me up all night," you toss back innocently. She flushes redder and shoves a carton of milk in your direction. You wink at her over your bowl of Weetabix. You sit in silence for a few, tedious minutes until she stretches languorously in her seat, covering her mouth hastily to stifle a yawn.

"Mm," she slips off the stool and stands behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist. She tucks her chin into the crook of your neck and plays with the fingers that are currently preoccupied with delivering spoonful after spoonful of breakfast into your mouth. You concede after awhile: the next time you raise the spoon, it makes its way to her mouth. She swallows and grins at you appreciatively. She ends up finishing half of your breakfast, and you find you don't mind. Not in the slightest.

Your gentle acquiescence surprises you.

"So," you venture hesitantly, twisting in your seat to face her. She smiles brightly and laces her fingers behind your neck. Climbs onto your lap. Skims the tip of her nose from the end of your chin to the base of your ear, and back. You shiver when she whispers against your skin.

"You're not going to greet me a Happy Valentines today? At all?" she scoffs, mocking disdain. "Some girlfriend you're turning out to be."

"I ignore the day on principle. It's an annual abnormal influx in the sales market of the global economy: businessmen all over the world take advantage of an essentially non-existent occasion—given the fact that it was principally created to celebrate the feast day of a Roman Catholic saint who was martyred for marrying off Roman soldiers to their sweethearts—and people are actually dense enough to fall for it, tripping over their own feet in their haste to buy trinkets and sweets and shit, left, right and center. When, if you think about it, really, they're celebrating, in actuality—not the glory of Love—but the unjust bloody beheading of a man! Not exactly the paragon of ideal Romantic notions."

She pulls back to look at you, dumb-struck. She blinks once, twice, then, "Well, somebody's bloody bitter." Her lips lift into a smirk when your jaw falls.

"I'm not fucking bitter!"

She laughs and climbs off your lap, and you miss her weight in your arms almost immediately. She shrugs, "Fine. Happy Valentines anyway," she rocks back on her heels and kisses your cheek. You sigh and take her by the wrist, tugging her closer so you can kiss her properly.

"Happy Valentines, Em," you whisper against her lips, and you feel her smile.

* * *

You love her. There's no other explanation in the world probable enough to explain your actions. Katie actually has the nerve to tell you you're well whipped, and you can't even find it in yourself to deck her because it's true. Dear, sweet Lord, it's true.

Also, because you're too preoccupied with the contents of your wardrobe to turn around to speak to her. The sublime irony of it all lies in the fact that you've given Katie Fucking Fitch voluntary permission to ransack your closet—_the double entendres_, you think wearily. _The humility._

"Please don't fucking tell me you're going to wear a jacket and like, a skirt to—"

"I fucking don't own anything else!"

"A proper dress? At all? Fuck it, Campbell . I didn't go through all the trouble of calling up that restaurant for reservations just so you can have your arse kicked out of it simply because you're not dressed enough to actually eat there."

"I don't suppose your charity extends to actually lending one, as opposed to skinning me alive over the fact that I don't happen to own one?"

"It'll never work. Emily knows my clothes as well as I know hers. She'll take one look at you tonight and know I lent it to you, and we both know she's never going to let either of us live it down. I don't know about you, but I'm not too keen on reliving my generous charity over the dinner table with mum every time you're 'round for dinner."

"Fuck, you're right. Well," you swivel around, clad in nothing but a black vest top and your knickers and you're too frustrated to even think about inane things, like, modesty, around her anymore. "What do I do?"

She catches the helplessness in your voice then, and it must soften her however minutely because she sighs and bites her lip.

"So we go shopping, bitch."

* * *

You don't remember spending this much money on clothes. Ever. But, because you chose to go shopping with Katie Fitch of all people, you do—and by God, is it worth it. She says you need new shoes, and you tell her you don't because yours are still well-functional. She tells you to stick them up 'your fucking cunt because they don't belong on anyone's feet.' So, when you get home that afternoon, you lay the day's commodities out on your bed and admire them because they're actually rather nice. You take out your mobile and punch in a number that shouldn't be altogether familiar, and yet, is.

"What?"

"Just—thanks."

"Oh. Yeah, sure. Don't want you embarrassing my sister or anything tonight, so."

"I won't. Although, you know, with the—and the—" you trail off awkwardly, hoping she catches on.

"Oh, those. You'll be fine. God, you're going to get the fucking shag of a lifetime for this, aren't you?" she sounds exasperated, but not exactly disgusted: she's trying.

It makes you smile.

* * *

You feel a little guilty when you ring Emily up that evening, telling her to go on ahead to Sou François. She panics—verbally, she splutters veritable word-vomit; physically, you imagine her flailing.

"But—but—why?" she chokes out, "I can wait for you, we—just—my moped? Naomi," she wails.

"You're not getting all worked up because you're embarrassed to show up alone, are you?" if pleading won't get you anywhere, then injuring her pride might.

"Of course I'm fucking ashamed at showing up alone! It's all, posh and high-end, and—can't we just go together, please?" Well, that didn't work. "Please, its—Valentines. I don't want to go alone."

She's using that voice, and it hurts you. But, you're determined to see it through, after all the effort you've expended with the other Fitch twin, and by God you'll see it done right.

"You won't be alone, Em. Trust me, I'll be right along, I promise." You make an uncharacteristic kissy noise into the phone before you hang up. You can imagine the look of blatant disbelief on her face and it makes you laugh.

* * *

You're twenty minutes later than you promised.

You don't have the time to dwell on it though, because you're too preoccupied with the things in your arms and making sure you don't trip over anything on the way in. The maitre'd is kind enough to hold the double doors open for you without looking too incredulous, making it seem that grand gestures like these happen in his restaurant every other day. He asks you casually, out of the corner of mouth, really, if you're seated with someone. You nod and say the reservation's in your name.

" Campbell ," you manage, spluttering around a mouthful of cotton and polyester. His eyes widen considerably before they droop sadly, as if to say, 'Oh! That table for Campbell —you've left the lady too long.' You glare at him as if to say, 'I know. Get on with it.' He steers you across tables of posh wide-eyed patrons, mouths agape, but you're too busy watching your own feet to shoot daggers at them. He nudges you with an elbow to stop you and you realize you must have reached her table already. Suddenly, the air constricts around you and breathing becomes difficult.

"I'll come back in a bit to get your orders," his accent is stiff and nasal, but he means kindly. He leaves right after he pulls your chair back, and then you're left with an Emily whose face you have yet to actually see, just as soon as you put down this blasted—

"Piglet?" she stands up from her chair—you hear it scraping against the wooden floor—and relieves you of the stuff-toy that's half her size. Which leaves you with the bouquet, and a box of chocolates. You chance a glance at her: she's just as incredulous as you are—she, because you're the paragon of Valentines clichés; you, because she is the epitome of grace and beauty. Her hair's up in a bun and she's wearing a black halter-top dress, and all you can think about is how much you want to kiss her shoulders.

"Oink, oink," you mumble softly, lips curling into a coy smile.

"Oh, Naoms," she whispers, glancing down at the roses and lilies and. Oh. Right. The flowers. You don't mean to thrust them at her but you sort of do, because you stumble on your heels. She takes them gratefully anyway and lifts them to her nose. The chocolates you can manage, choosing to set them down by her napkin. She looks up at you then, and her eyes are suddenly brimming.

"Oh, Ems ," you mumble awkwardly because, dear Lord, if she started crying now imagine what the other diners would say? She must've been a downright bitch, and now she's making up for it. But Emily goes around the table to stand before you and you can't find the words to say anything worthwhile, because words have the tendency to become superfluous, and you're not exactly the paragon of eloquence. She knows, though—because Emily always, always knows—so she laces her fingers behind your neck instead and pulls you towards her. She doesn't kiss you though; rests her forehead on yours for a moment, gazing up at you through her lashes.

"I'm sorry I'm late?" you bite your lip and try to restrain a smile. She narrows her eyes and pulls you closer; your arms wrap themselves around her waist, drawing her tighter against you.

"You're forgiven, I think," she whispers, half-serious, glancing down at the stuffed toy and the embarrassingly huge bouquet on your relatively tiny table in comparison. You smile for real then: a soft, grateful grin. You watch the resolve break in her eyes as she tilts her head to the side and leans forward and – suddenly you're kissing; warm, half-parted lips sliding gently against yours, pressing tightly together. You're senses sharpen, you're aware of so many things all at once: her fingers against the nape of your neck, and on your cheek; her tongue darting out to taste your bottom lip; her breath warm and moist against your mouth; and the overwhelming realization that you're in public.

Your eyes snap open, and very gently, you nudge her back. She pulls away a moment later, taking the hint, but her eyes are still half-closed. You chance a quick glance at the dining patrons and, save for three or six cursory, nearly amused pairs of eyes (accusatory – thankfully, none) no one seems to have paid the slightest attention to your miniscule domestic slip-up. You glance back at her and heave a sigh of relief when she starts to laugh.

This could very well be the night of my life, you think.

* * *

She finds your outfit amusing. You protest Katie's choice in fashion.

"She's my sister. My sister. Naomi, my sister thinks leopard fucking print is sexy. She thinks skirt-tucked-thongs are a fashion statement. Once, on our joint thirteenth-birthday party, she wore a plaid jumper over her hot pink striped boxer briefs, because she believed the color would distract the guests into believing she wasn't wearing just her knickers. She's not exactly the almighty go-to Dalai Lama of the fashion industry."

You huff, a little bit pissed at the fact that she's not exactly doling out a pre-requisite perfunctory compliment, like a good date. "Yeah, well. Fuck you. I think it's nice."

She quirks a brow and smirks, "I said she doesn't dress well, I never said you didn't." She punctuates her statement with a once-over, raking her gaze over your body appreciatively. You shiver involuntarily.

"Although, in hindsight," she muses. An afterthought. "She had the general idea. Very considerate of her."

Your brows knit themselves together, "What're you on about, Fitch?"

"Ridding you of floral print altogether? Sheer genius," she licks the cream off her spoon provocatively; knows you're watching her tongue dart across the silverware. Teases you. You swallow back a cheeky retort and raise your hand instead. The maitre'd who helped you out earlier—Gustav? Jeanneau?—takes the bill and bows curtly in thanks. You tuck a pound-note under your plate and move to stand. Emily follows suit, and you watch amusedly as she attempts to tuck the piglet in one arm and the bouquet in the other.

"Here," you chuckle eventually, "Let me." She bats your hands away and blushes, "No, don't. I want to."

Your heart starts to pump a frenetic rhythm and your blood can't quite keep up: with a heady, euphoric rush, you lean forward and kiss her again.

Surprised, she drops the chocolates.

* * *

She finds a wide, empty bench along the river bend and deposits your gifts onto the lacquered wood. She sits down on the edge and glances up at you with soft, warm eyes.

"I thought you didn't do clichés," she whispers, reaching up to pull you down by your tie. She keeps her other hand pressed on the bench, even as you bend down, hands on either side of her.

"Before I met you, Emily Fitch, I didn't do a lot of things. Girls, for one," you quip, perfectly poker-faced. Her eyes twinkle and then she's laughing, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. Your own eyes close in contentment at the sound of her merriment. I'd never get tired of hearing that, you think. Every day of forever. You lean forward further and press your face against her neck, letting your weight rest on your palms. Your lips find her throat and quite suddenly, she stops laughing. Her fingers fumble underneath your collar, quickly working your tie loose. She pulls on the knot until it hangs, undone, just above your sternum. And then, her hands move to your dress shirt, carefully undoing every button with care. She stops just before she exposes your bra and then her hands slip down your sides, all the way down. Soon, she curls her fingers around the back of your left thigh, pulling it onto the bench beside her.

You pull back to look at her, and when you do, you're perversely pleased to find her eyes are no less darker than yours. She crashes your mouths together, her tongue slipping in to meet yours. You open your eyes briefly to check behind her—perfectly deserted street. Streetlights at irregular, lengthy intervals. She'd planned this. _Good girl._

She wraps her legs around your waist and from this angle it isn't difficult to reach down and find purchase. You take the hem of her dress and push it upwards, letting it bunch untidily around her waist. She gasps into your hair when you lean against her, your belt buckle inadvertently pushing right against her core. She wraps her arms about your shoulders and bucks into you, once, twice; you need both your hands to slide her knickers down to her ankles.

"Need you—" she gasps breathlessly, reaching down to unbuckle the leather hindrance that is your belt. She makes short work of your buttons and the zipper, sliding your dress pants down to your knees. A cold blast of air bites your skin, already damp and warm from you exertions, but right now, it's the least of your worries. You're fucking her in public. This is a night of firsts, you think fleetingly.

You press heated kisses along her neck, pausing to suck a nipple through the fabric of her dress. She isn't wearing a bra, and the very thought drives you mad with desire. She releases a series of guttural moans, fingers scrabbling against your back, cupping your arse, drawing you closer; like she can't get enough of you all at once, ever. The heady scent of her arousal drifts towards you and your eyes roll back into your head—you moan into her skin: you're consumed with an overwhelming desire to feel her, preferably warm and wet and clenching tightly around your fingers. But, but, but—you tease her, dipping a finger into her folds (she's so wet and so warm and so ready for you, you can't help the groan that escapes into the chill night air), swirling around her clit, but never coming into contact with it.

"Naomi, no," she manages, groaning desperately, hands gripping your bicep tightly enough to tourniquet. She bucks into your hand but you pull back just as quickly, ignoring the little noises of protestation coming her way. This could be better for both of you, you think. You pull her towards you and shift, nudging her sideways until she gets the picture and settles with her back pressed against the bench seat. You lift her left leg by the calf and drape it across the edge of the back rest. She watches you through half-lidded eyes as you kick off your trousers and settle between her legs. You lean over her, hands on either side of her head as she wraps an arm around your waist, the fingers of her other hand tangling with the hairs along the back of your neck. You kiss her then, softly, languidly, like you have all the time in the world—because, in a way, you do. But then you're kissing a little harder now, all teeth and tongues and heat and want.

She cries out a little when you touch her again, fingers sliding warm and swiftly against her wetness. She arches her back and whimpers: you nip the skin below her ear and enter her with a finger. Her hands move to your chest, unbuttoning your dress shirt all the way, leaving the last two at the bottom done-up. She slides the sleeves off your shoulders and lets it hang at the waist and the fact that you're wearing so little and so much, all at once, is enough to drive you into a frenzy. Her fingers slide underneath your bra to cup your breasts and you moan, pushing yourself against her hands. She rolls your nipples between her fingers and it's too much and too little all at once, but then with Emily, it always, always is.

She wraps her other leg around your waist and arches her back again, and she says something against your neck, but you can't really hear her over the blood pounding in your ears. But, it sounds a lot like, 'More,' except she sounds so breathless, she drags the word into two syllables. You're not entirely sure if that's what she wanted in the first place, but you comply. When you slip another finger inside her, she swears breathily, and you know you've heard right. She wants more, though. She's pushing you up by the waist, pulling your leg upward. Your right knee brushes against her ear, the other left behind beside her waist, and the position she's dragged you into is nothing short of painfully compromising. But, soon enough, she reaches up and slides your knickers down—not all the way, just enough. She pulls you closer, hands on the back of your thighs, fingers splayed against your bare arse cheeks. You watch, wide-eyed, as she cranes her neck forward and slides her tongue inside you and then, 'Oh, Jesus, fuck,' you hiss through clenched teeth as she sucks rather hard on your clit.

Your fingers try to keep up, then, because she's not using any fingers at all but you feel so close already, so close. They slide out of her easily enough, and soon you build a pace with her mouth, pumping out of her hard; a thumb flicking against her clit every now and then. You throw your head back and pant into the air, your eyes screwed tightly shut. She runs a wet tongue every now and again along your entire slit and you shudder against her; a stream of expletives flying freely from your mouth every time she goes inside you again. (It surprises you that something so relatively small a muscle can elicit so much pleasure, much less reach that far, but this is Emily. And everything about her surprises you ceaselessly.)

All too soon, you feel yourself clenching, your walls tightening around her tongue.

"Ems," you whimper, "I'm so fucking close—I can't—I'm going to come, hun, I—l" she nods between your legs, like she's giving you permission. Your arm strains to go faster than it already is, and soon you're pumping in and out of her without let-up, thumb pressing against her clit, swirling quickly. It's not often you come together, but when you do, it is nothing short of glorious. You come with a shuddering jolt, so hard and so suddenly, you cry in surprise. And by God, do you come. You've never been quite so vocal in bed, but Emily's turned you into quite the screamer. You come with a deafening cry (always her name, always), back arching, head thrown back, hips quivering against her mouth. Beneath you, she begins to shake, and she follows suit; mouth leaving your cunt for a moment to swear breathlessly in her ecstasy. She thrashes with wild abandon underneath you and you realize she's come just as hard. You both stay in place for a moment to collect yourselves. You compose yourself enough to swing your leg off her head and move to stand up; you pull on your trousers and do up the buttons on your now-crumpled dress shirt. She lies in place for another minute or so, eyes closed, her breathing erratic, still. Soon enough however, she sits up and slides her knickers back in place and smoothes her dress down as neatly as she can manage.

You stare at each other for a good long while and break into smiles. "What was that?" you laugh disbelievingly. She shrugs and lifts a sinister brow, "Senseless seduction."

You kneel on the ground before her and take her hands. Drape them around your neck. Feel her fingers lace against your nape. "Nothing is ever senseless with you," you lean upward and kiss her chastely. She tastes of you. When you pull back, she smiles at you, eyes glistening.

"Sometimes," she takes a deep breath and sighs, like she's holding back tears, "Sometimes, I get scared. I know its stupid, but I can't help it sometimes. I'm sorry." She looks so guilty you feel your insides clench.

"Why?" you ask, feeling incredibly stupid and increasingly inarticulate. She wipes her nose with the back of her hand—like a kid—and refuses to meet your eyes.

"The universe is a fucked up comedian. It has a fatalistic sense of humor, Fate," she manages after awhile. She sniffles and swipes a tear on her cheek with the heel of her hand. "When I'm with you like this, when we spend time together like this, when I have you all to myself like this—I get scared before I go to bed. Nothing good lasts forever, you know? Whenever you become too happy, the universe has to like, go out of its way to fuck you up somehow, just to even things out on the scales. When something's too good to be true, it probably isn't. Isn't that what they always say?" And you don't know how to respond. Because suddenly, she's peeling you apart, taking your deepest fears and laying them bare.

"But, I don't want it to be true. I want a chance to be happy. All my life, I've had to share things with people—with Katie, with James, with mum. But, you," she tries to smile through her tears, but it comes out all wrong – lopsided and quivering. "You're—you're mine. I don't have to share you with anyone else. And, I just—I just—I want—I want to believe that maybe the universe, just, sort of likes me, you know? Because, you're still here. But, sometimes, I get scared, because one day, when I wake up, you might not be. Fuck, sorry. That sounded fucked up. Stupid, yeah? Shit," she laughs, but her voice breaks towards the end, and it's horrible, so horrible, because just a moment ago, you were so happy. You hold her as she sobs; you force down the fear that surges up at her words. You suddenly feel sick—you suppress the urge to lean back and throw up by her shoes.

"No, Em," you whisper, running your hands up and down her back soothingly. "Look," you pull back and take her face in your hands gently.

"Don't," you lean forward and brush your lips against hers softly; a ghost of a kiss. "I know you're really into Psychology lately—don't think I haven't seen you trying to hide Freud and Jung under your bed when I come in—" she laughs, quite suddenly and sniffles a muted, _'You make it sound like I have a closet psycho-gay fetish.'_

"—Or that you've taken a turn for the worse, and somehow ended up worshipping the previously mocked idealisms of a certain Stephen Hawking—"

'_I've always been interested in the machinations of the universe and physics in general, I'll have you know!'_

"Point is," you hold up a finger definitively. "Science is irrefutably fluid. There's nothing we can do about that. It evolves, darling. It isn't fixed." You swipe your thumbs underneath her eyes and wipe away the moisture there. "But, you and I," you swallow, your throat suddenly closing up (in fear? In anticipation? In love?). "We're—"

You trail off, unable to finish, because you don't know what you are, exactly. She looks up at you expectantly, and when you can't find the words to elaborate just a little bit further, her eyes begin to water again.

"I love you," you say helplessly, because they're the only words that spring readily to mind. "I love you, Emily. You know I do. I'm not going anywhere, any time soon." Her bottom lip quivers against yours when she pulls you in for a kiss, but you feel the curve of her smile, and the thought assuages the frantic, fearful beating of your heart some.

Not a lot, but enough.

* * *

Later, she curls up against you on the couch, and you brush the hair from her forehead in slow, soothing strokes until her breathing gradually evens out and she drifts off. You uncurl her fingers from a mug of warm spiced ale and flick the telly off (the man on the Shopping Network has a brand new vacuum – Emily might be interested, if they do a rerun in the morning, but not enough to actually want to buy one). She shifts in her sleep, burrows deeper into the crook of your neck, and frowns, reaching up to unconsciously scratch an itch on her nose. It amuses you, the way her arm mechanically comes around to curl about your waist.

You reach upward with your free hand and run a finger down her cheek, tracing the curve of her mouth, the line of her jaw. She's impossibly, effortlessly beautiful, you think. Breathtaking in the best possible way. She renders you incoherent at the worst of times, all your snappy comebacks fading in the light of her reasoning.

You don't like relinquishing power, in any form; you relish control. But, with Emily, you don't have anything resembling authority at all: not over your faculties of rational thought, at least. It frightens you sometimes, especially during moments like these.

Moments like these.

You chance a glance at the wall clock on the adjacent wall.

11:48 pm.

The night isn't over yet, then. You resolve to push away all thoughts unrelated to the current occasion at hand, until tomorrow at the very least. Piglet lies upturned and askew on your knees: you reach over and turn him over in your hands. Very carefully, you nudge Emily's arm open and slip him into her embrace. She snuggles into him reflexively, and you smile.

"Happy Valentines, Ems ," you whisper, pressing a kiss to her ear. She mumbles in her sleep (a reply? A reproach?) and grips your jumper a little tighter. You fall asleep like that, then; knees bent awkwardly beneath you, Emily in your arms, a piglet between you both.

You wouldn't have it any other way, really.

(You think otherwise in the morning, when you attempt to roll your neck experimentally and find you can't.)

* * *

**If you happen to be following 'Broken' and 'Bastille' as well, I'll have the updates for those up in a bit.**

**Leave me a little something, yeah? Like, an early birthday gift! In the form of, well, a review.**

**Cheers, darlings!**

**- Guppy x**


	3. Subtlety and Falsity

**Tactile Deflection**

* * *

**4. Whisper it into her hair in the middle of the night, after you've counted the space between her breaths and are certain she's asleep. Shut your eyes quickly when she shifts toward you in askance. Maybe you were just sleep whispering.**

* * *

It's the silence that frustrates her more than anything—not counting the fact that _she'd_ purposely left out the wash without segregating the whites from her own filthy miscellaneous bits and pieces, or the fact that _she'd_ made breakfast this morning without asking her if she'd like a plate as well.

Naomi hisses a curse, wishes they'd stop acting like such _children._

It doesn't take her long to sort the laundry; she managed to bundle everything conveniently into two bags, hastily tying them together with plastic packing straw. She feels around the corners of her trouser pocket, fingering loose bits of change and wondering if they're enough to pull her through a bus ride _and _a doughnut from the bakery across the Laundromat. She decides against the latter, then, after thumbing through her quid and peeling off a fiver stuck to the back of her phone. Naomi chews on her lip for a moment, decides to fix herself a sandwich instead, to eat on the way down to the station.

The cheese is missing from the fridge—she rummages through the chiller and through the cupboard shelves before mentally accusing _her _of taking it, just to spite her. She settles for a granola bar instead, relishes the sound of the packing foil crinkling delicately in the quiet of _their_ tiny kitchen when she peels it off. She takes a bite before crumbling it unceremoniously into tiny, sticky pieces, pulling it apart with her fingers and scattering them across the slices of rye along the counter top.

"What the fuck are you _doing?_" Emily sounds almost horrified, and Naomi has to bite down on her tongue to keep her default scathing comments at bay. They'd do nothing to help them both, at this point. Emily realizes her mistake a beat later—_they're not supposed to be speaking to each other, she'd forgotten—_and steps past her into their living room. The telly flicks on a little later, and the tell-tale sounds of Jeopardy's opening theme floats into the room. Naomi sticks her sandwich into a paper bag before slinging the laundry bags across her back.

She leaves through the back door without saying good-bye; can't stand to be in the same room with her without touching, speaking.

She's afraid she'd give in, first.

* * *

By the time she's finished, Bristol's pouring down with a vengeance to rival that of the Great Deluge. The rain scares her a little; she'd forgotten to bring an umbrella. When it lets out a little—the sky overhead a deep, dull grey; thunder rolling in at irregular, lengthy intervals—she hefts the bags over her head and makes a mad dash for the station shed, two blocks down. She ignores the cat-calls and jeers of the drunken gits from the pub across the street, and the way the mud puddles are seeping into her ballet flats. The rain starts up again as soon as she rounds the first corner; she swears out loud when she slips against the pavement, her hand shooting forward instinctively to brace her fall. The curb slices the heel of her palm, leaving a lengthy cut just below her thumb. She staggers to her feet quickly, the rain pouring down harder than ever.

By the time she makes it to the bus station, she's completely soaked through. She whimpers a little when she lifts her hand to the light to examine it: it's a filthy, bloody mess. She presses her hand against her cotton parka to stem the flow, winces when the fabric chafes against her raw skin.

She doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until she feels herself shaken awake. She jolts back into consciousness and instinctively elbows her assailant roughly in the stomach, thoughts of getting accosted and harassed by chauvinist bastards sailing through her mind. They'd probably thought she was a call-girl; who else would be forward enough to fall asleep all alone by the bloody bus stop?

"_Fuck,"_ her attacker groans, gripping her tightly by the shoulder. She flinches at the contact before peering up at him—_her—_more closely.

"Emily?" she asks incredulously. She pushes back the hoodie of the winter coat to reveal her lover's face, grimacing in pain at her. "Oh, Jesus, Ems. I thought you were going to mug me, or something." She pulls on Emily's collar and tugs her forward, wrapping her tightly in an embrace, her relief nearly substantial in its intensity.

Emily groans at the contact, pushes herself closer, arms sliding around Naomi's neck for comfort. "I think you ruptured my guts," she mumbles breathlessly against her shoulder. Naomi chuckles, presses a kiss to her ear before realizing they shouldn't even be _touching—_

"I ran out to look for you when it started to rain, because you'd left the umbrella at home. I stopped by the Laundromat, but you weren't there anymore. I figured you'd be here," Emily says lightly, gesturing behind her. Naomi cranes her head to the side a little, notices their second-hand Ford Fiesta parked by the curb.

"Emily—" she says, softly.

"I'm still mad at you," Emily cuts her off pointedly, but she says it with a suppressed tenderness that makes Naomi thinks that perhaps, maybe, not as much as she was earlier. Emily glances down, sees her wounded hand. Sighs. "Let's get you fixed up," she says resolutely, wrapping an arm around Naomi's waist and tugging the laundry bags along with the other.

"Let's get you home."

* * *

They're molded together perfectly on the couch—connected everywhere, touching everywhere—fully clothed. Naomi pulls Emily impossibly closer to her, presses her face against the skin of her neck, legs around her waist. Emily sighs contentedly, hands gripping onto her shoulders, her arms.

"Oh," Emily moans softly when Naomi starts to graze her ear with her teeth; whimpers when she kisses the skin beneath her ear.

"I said I was sorry," Naomi whispers, presses her lips against the pulse at Emily's throat.

"I know," Emily gasps, leaning back to give her better access.

"But, you still won't forgive me," Naomi says, almost sadly. Brushes her lips against her collar.

"I'm still so fucking angry at you," Emily breathes, not without difficulty, glancing down to watch Naomi take the zipper of her coat between her teeth. Groans when she feels it drag down, agonizingly slow.

"I didn't mean to laugh," Naomi mumbles, presses her cheek against Emily's stomach. "I thought you were joking."

"Photography is a valid profession—it's not a fucking—not, a fucking—not, a fucking joke," Emily whimpers, her breath hitching in short, staccato gasps, watching through half-closed lids as Naomi takes the edge of her shirt between her teeth and pulls upwards, exposing her bare stomach.

"I know it isn't. I'm sorry," Naomi kisses her there, just beneath her ribs. She twines their fingers together, tugs her upwards to kiss her.

"I promise I'll forgive you tomorrow," Emily murmurs against her lips, slips her tongue inside her mouth.

"I think I can hold out a little longer," Naomi laughs, kisses her cheek.

* * *

She's fairly sure _she's _asleep—she's taken to counting the space between her breaths, releases a sigh of relief when they've evened out in lengthy, evenly spaced intervals.

She chances a glance at the wall clock across the room, above the mantelpiece. In the dim light, she can make out the digital analog beneath the minute hand: 2:52 a.m.

"I love you," she whispers softly, sincerely. She tucks her chin beneath the blanket and shivers. Naomi shifts towards her, peers at her curiously, sleepily, for a beat.

"You say something, Ems?"

* * *

**Perfidia**

* * *

**5. Blurt it out in the middle of an impromptu dance party in the kitchen, as clumsy as your two left feet. When time seems to freeze, hastily tack on "in that shirt" or "when you make your award-winning meatballs" or, if you are feeling particularly brave, "when we do this." Resume dancing and pretend you don't feel her eyes on you the rest of the night.**

* * *

The look on her face when you hand her the mustache is so perfect, it's priceless. It'll be one of your greatest regrets in the years that follow, not taking a photo of that moment_—_imprinting the image of her dubiety on cold paper for posterity.

"What the fuck is this for?" she isn't exactly the paragon of articulacy_—_particularly when she's had a fair amount to drink_—_but you forgive her indiscretions because the slur in her voice becomes more pronounced with every swig of your cocktail mix, and the look of wonder and awe on her face is more than enough, really.

"You put in it on your face, Em," you lean forward to pry it from her grip, but she yanks it back so swiftly her arm collides with the edge of the counter top. She hisses a curse when her shot glass crashes to the floor, but she makes no move to clean it up. You make a mental note to sweep the shards up later, before Emily decides the kitchen floor would be a wonderful place to sleep in for the night, which_—_given her current state_—_seems like a growing possibility.

"I know what it's for," she giggles, reaching for the tail of your shirt. She leans up to kiss you and you taste the bittersweet tang of the mixer on her tongue. She swivels away until her back collides with the edge of the counter. "Are you planning to leave me any time soon?" she banters, raises a brow in mock apprehension. You attempt to look properly distressed at her insinuations, feign indignation and hurt, but the curl of her smile sends you into a hysterical fit of giggles instead. She is not amused.

"I knew it!" she cries, leaps to her feet, prods you roughly in the stomach. "There's something," she drags the last syllables out with difficulty. "Something about _you _and men with _fucking _facial hair. I can't fucking compete with that."

"You know what they say, Em," you push yourself off the counter and saunter over to her, let your gaze drag all over her body. She bites her lip when she notices the look in your eye and you just _know _she's already so, _so _wet. (To Emily, alcohol is a miracle worker, in more ways than one: as an icebreaker; as a stress-reliever; as an _aphrodisiac.) _You curl your fingers around her wrist gently, pry the offending costume piece from her weak grip. She looks up at you with doleful eyes when you stick it unceremoniously onto the skin above her lip. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, and all that."

She wrinkles her nose, scrunches her brows together. Looks up at you with something that remotely resembles a frown, or at least, a piss-poor parody of one. Takes you by the cuff of your collar, pulls you down for a kiss. It takes your breath away, when she does that; kissing for the sake of kissing, relishing the feel of your skin against hers; seeking constant reassurance of your existence, her sanity confirmed by your tangibility. She brushes her lips against yours, once, twice. You giggle when you feel the fine hairs of the felt stache tickle the tip of your nose.

"Fuck you," she whispers tenderly, reaches up to sweep the sombrero off your head. You watch amusedly as she sets it at a jaunty angle on her own, the wide brim hanging low across her brow. _"Te gusta?" _she ducks her chin, looks up at you coyly through her lashes.

_"Mucho," _you say seriously, your accent comically thick and cloying. _"Muy bonita." _She squeaks in surprise when you hoist her up onto the counter top. Her elbow sinks into the guacamole-and-bean dip you both made earlier in lieu of the failed-salsa attempts weeks prior. She doesn't mind, though. Not when your hand slides up to stroke up her spine. She shivers against you and wraps her legs around your waist.

The sombrero slips off her head and onto the floor, forgotten.

* * *

The kitchen walls thrum with the wild, staccato beats native to Swedish rap music_—Petter? Fronda? Afasi & Filthy? _It sends a buzz through your system: the sensual, rhythmic flow of guttural Dutch flowing through your veins, straight to your head, providing a better high than the sixth mouthful of tequila you've downed in the last three minutes. Emily's thrashing about in your arms, fists pumping the air without a care in the world. She mouths the lyrics to the song, though you seriously doubt she understands a word. She jumps about, lands on the soles of her feet, pirouettes away from you, twirls on the balls of her feet, stumbles, laughs, throws her arms in the air during the machine-gun-_esque _riffs of the final chorus, takes another swig of tequila, starts a slow head-bang in tune to the gradual fade-out of the last few bars.

You are both breathless by the time the song ends, for completely different reasons; she, because you've never seen someone dance through an entire song with a beat _that_ fast; you, because Emily, well. Emily. Emily is Emily Fitch, and she affects you in a way only she can; in a way she reserves especially for Naomi Campbell.

You pull her towards you, tug her forward by the elbow. She spins about, turns in your arms, and laces her fingers behind your neck. She smiles when she looks up at you_—_looks so properly fucking bashful it's _adorable—_giggles, a bit hysterically, when you brush your lips against her cheek. "Oh, I _love _this one," she sighs. The minuscule stereo on the shelf above the stove-top starts playing a slow, soft ballad you immediately recognize. Emily hums along softly and sways.

"Come _on, _Naoms," she chastises, grins ridiculously wide. "You know this one." She lets a hand trail down your shoulder, traces a path from your elbow to your wrist until she reaches your hand. She promptly laces your fingers together and leans forward to tuck her chin against the crook of your neck. "You _know _this one," she whispers softly, her other hand reaching up to loop through your _other _arm, the one around her waist. If you're going to be completely honest, really, you do. You _do _know this song. Have it seared into you through an unfortunate accident involving your mother's records, a bag of saltwater taffy, and a Walkman.

"What makes you so sure?" you ask anyway, smirking against her hair. She presses herself closer, you feel her sigh contentedly against your shoulder.

"You sang it to me on Nan's porch when we visited last. She set up the gramophone and made you pick out a record. This was the first song that played, and you sang along to it," you blink, then, because you do not remember _that. _(Though, you _do _remember Emily's Nan_—_recall her buttered cornbread and pot roast all too well. You wouldn't eat for a day afterward, didn't want to forget the culinary orgasmic bliss that was her grandmother's cooking.)

"Oh," you splutter anyway. "Well." Then, you remember something else.

You cough awkwardly to alleviate the sudden tension coiling in your gut, whisper a prayer of supplication to all the deities above that Emily doesn't sense your stiffness.

She doesn't.

She continues to hum along, starts swaying you both to the melody. Neither of you say anything after that. You concentrate on shifting your weight from foot-to-foot, tilting forward to keep Emily on her feet, twirling her with a hand when the song melds out into the bridge. She is lost in her bliss, in this romantic moment with you; you are preoccupied at the moment with little else other than that which caused you to spring a spontaneous night of home-ground debauchery in the first place. You'd hoped to forget, for a while.

Your throat burns. The corners of your eyes sting.

You try not to think about how much you want a cigarette.

* * *

The poncho is a bit too big on Emily_. _She shrugs it on without much difficulty and does a little twirl for your appraisal. The woven patterns contrast beautifully with her hair. You tell her so.

"Why, thank you," she kisses you carefully, attempts to avoid the felt stache on your own lip. Fails. Laughs. You shimmy into your own poncho a moment later, while she fiddles with the dial on your stereo. "They had some _great _tunes here, the other day. Dad always turns up this station at the gym."

"His jam?" you smirk and cross your arms. "Can't really imagine why anyone would _want _to work out to, like, _La Isla Bonita, _or something." You wrinkle your nose in distaste. She mutters under her breath, flicks the frequency switch back and forth in an attempt to locate it.

"I'll have you know," Emily continues in an off-hand sort of voice, her gaze never leaving the yellow light of the analog dial. "Madonna was not only a _fashion _icon, she was also_—"_

"Accused of bestiality with a boa constrictor? A sex-icon for sexually confused teenage girls in the nineteen-eighties?"

_"A pioneer in the world of dance music," _she finishes, exasperated. The seemingly sober texture of the conversation at hand is surprising, given the fact that you've both just polished off half a bottle of tequila. "Aha!" she squeaks delightedly. Suddenly, the tell-tale rattling of maracas floods the room. Vocals follow soon after, foreign—Mexican? _Spanish.—_and unfamiliar. It sounds exactly like—

"A _mariachi _band?" you cry incredulously. "You have got to be fucking kidding me, Em. There is _no _way in hell I—"

She pushes her fingers against your lips excitedly to silence you. She cocks her head to the side, listens to the opening strings, until the lead male vocalist peters out into a long, drawn out Indian-_esque _war cry. She mimics him, throws her head back, and makes a trilling noise at the back of her roll your eyes because, really. This is so incredibly _ridiculous. _But Emily looks so bleeding _eager _that, for a moment, you feel like singing along to the insanely preposterous excuse for music that is a Mexican _mariachi _band.

She doffs off her sombrero and starts throwing it in the air, catching it deftly with the tips of her fingers. She misses once or twice and nearly falls over when she stoops down to get it. "Oh, come _on, _Naoms," she rolls her eyes at you—it is a surprisingly brilliant impression of your own bad habit that you think briefly, _we imperceptibly become each other, in the end; there is no salvation— _and pulls you forward by the ends of your poncho. She throws her arms around your neck and you have to crouch a bit for balance when she wraps both her legs around your waist, laughing madly.

"Fucking _dance _with me."

It does not occur to you to consider otherwise, so you do.

* * *

In the next thirty or so minutes, you manage to—upset your mother's Tibetan vase; upend the waste basket in the far corner of your relatively tiny kitchen; set your arm on fire; make Emily come twice against the table, fully clothed; down another bottle of tequila; drop your phone in the empty margarita pitcher; lose your shoes; throw up once.

The spectacular-quality of the evening is ethereal in its intensity. You don't recall ever being this happy.

"_No!" _she nearly screams, laughs so hard she nearly cries. "You spin the other fucking way, like—" she nudges your left foot behind you with her own and you stumble forward clumsily, trip on _her _feet, instead. She roars with laughter when you push her backward accidentally. She pushes you back, pulls on your hands by her stomach and swivels you about in time to the beat blasting from the stereo's sorry-excuse-for-a-speaker.

The world spins before you, a blur of sound and color, and for a fleeting moment you're afraid you might just toss all over Emily. But, before you do, the world is right-side up again and she's holding you against her tightly, laughing for all she's worth.

"I love you," you mumble breathlessly, turn your head upward to press a kiss against her throat. "I love you so much, when we do this."

And then, it hits you.

The song that you'd both slow-danced to earlier plays up again, and instead of eliciting a spark of delight similar to Emily's, it incites a low, throbbing, painful, gut-wrenching sensation beneath your ribs. Because, now, you remember where you'd heard it before—and it was _not _with Emily and her Nan, that one summer evening. You feel your stomach contract and all too soon, bile rises up your throat. You push Emily away abruptly and stumble on your feet. You barely make it to the sink before tossing. It burns your throat and it makes you cry, and not for the reasons either of you would like to think.

She holds your hair back concernedly and rubs soothing patterns up and down your back. "It's alright, hon. It's okay," she coos, and you shake your head in vehement protest because _no, it is not okay. It will never be okay. I cannot justify what I did. _

You grip the tiling of the counter with your fingers tightly until your knuckles stand out white in contrast to your already pale skin. She turns the knob on the faucet and fills a glass with cold water, hands it to you wordlessly. You throw your head back and try to rinse all traces of acid from your mouth away, but it burns, still. It retains the bitterness. Emily reaches up and wipes your mouth with the corner of her poncho; pulls you closer, tighter; kisses your ear; tells you she loves you; tells you it's okay, tells you you'll be okay.

And, it hurts. It hurts so much. The memories too fresh: _her _pressed up against the wall, your leg between _hers_, your hand down _her_ trousers, _her_ gasps heavy in your ears. You remember now: it was the song that played when you fucked _her, _turned up the knob on the volume to drown out _her_ moans in a futile attempt to pretend that it wasn't _her _you'd pinned down.

The pain is substantial in its intensity, pressing down your chest, constricting the air from your lungs. You pull her even harder against you and sob, press your face against her neck and bathe it with tears.

"I'm sorry," you gasp over and over again. "I'm so sorry."

She pulls back, then, her brows creased together in concern and—there, clear as day in her forced sobriety—fear. She studies your face for a second, a minute, an hour, her gaze flitting across your face, trying to decipher your distress. Whether _she _should have cause for distress. You feel bile rising up in your throat again when you wonder _what if,_ maybe, _maybe, _she knows. She _knows._

Her face relaxes after a while and she sighs in relief—_she trusts you, _knows_ there's nothing, no reason for her to even consider your possible shortcomings. _She throws her arms around your neck and kisses your mouth, hard and frantic. Desperate. "It's okay," she hisses between nips. Her teeth are gritted together. "It's okay."

Only, it isn't. You know it isn't. You know _she_ knows it isn't. But, for now, it will do. So, you kiss her back, and pretend that it is.

* * *

Your phone rattles inside the glass pitcher, a sad parody of a crystal bell. She fishes it out and glances at the screen. "Cook," she announces evenly, twines your fingers together. You accept the call and press the phone to your ear with trembling fingers. She kisses down your neck, nips the skin at the hollow of your throat; it distracts you, but not quite. You end the call with a soft noise of assent and sigh.

She glances up at you expectantly and traces the line of your jaw with a finger. You catch her hand and kiss her wrist, "At Effy's. The whole crew. Let's?" You force an eager smile and raise a curious brow. She smiles up at you, reaches forward to pull you down. Nuzzles her nose against yours. Closes her eyes.

"I love you," she says simply and it sounds like reassurance, more than anything. She opens them again and grins wide.

"Let's go get shit-faced."

* * *

**Because love isn't always about chocolates and roses.**

**Let this be a balm, though. After all the shit I made you wade through in Broken. **

**Let me know you dropped by!**


End file.
